I recognize myself in the Benin Bronzes. An object in motion, stolen and dispersed, rooted in displacement. A transient experience of physicality in which I belong everywhere and nowhere. But through memory of where I came from and who I am, I'm beginning to better understand where I’m going.
Repatriation
I reclaim what is mine
I close my eyes and leave behind this
Pillaged place from a distant time
Bare, prostrate across the floor
I stare into the void
Yearning for more
Yearning for return
I take my lonely first step
I’m being called back home...
By my mother’s father’s father’s mother
whom whispers clairvoyance upon my ear
The way my blood vessels surge
when her Àṣẹ comes near
Sparks upon my fingertips
Flames upon my lips
I sing songs of lighting
I channel thunder in my hips
How slow goes the time
When you feel no need to wait
The muscles of my waist quiver
Upon dreams of heaven’s gate
I carefully tend to the energy
that runs up my spine
I’m making moves back to heaven
I reclaim what is mine
We are the warriors, the nurturers, the blacksmiths
We are the shepherds, the carpenters, the healers
We are the oracle
Who sees from between the brow
The keeper of bees
The farmer and the plough
We are the most ancient of old
Constantly made anew
Polished relics of bronze
A scattered loot
And despite the doom
I can still see the Ọba’s room
A royal pedestal
A niche within which I divinely fit
Our likeness inspired the avant garde
Our rhythm’s been appropriated near and far
Don't they know what we been through?
Don't they recognize who we are?
We are the warriors, the nurturers, the blacksmiths
Who conjure magic from the soil
The shepherds, the carpenters, the healers
Who turn water into oil
We are an immortal energy
that needs no nation
It’s time we return to Heaven
It’s time for Repatriation
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